The Angry Black Woman

Have you ever spent an extended amount of time — (just read, all your life) trying to breathe in a climate of suspicion, despise and hate?
A crooked finger, points and aims their privilege straight in your face. Imagine, being told to ‘just relax’
whilst the weight of a states murderous foot-soldier —
steals your last breath away.

Still, the ‘white gaze’
demands compliance — and whispering tones that sound like silence
in response to structural, physical and psychological violence?
It’s all too absurd for flowery words.
Would you like me to rock you in my arms and sing you a lullaby?
Should I encourage you to hope,
even if I feel hopeless and my anger is rejected as out of place?
Free emotional labour for the comfort of others —
is not a part of my agenda when lives are at stake.

I am not okay today.
Are you okay?
Watching real lives come under threat or senselessly ended?
You can’t make it make sense.
There is no pity for foolishness here,
the fuckery is too loud and too clear.

On any given day,
silence is my sword and my shield.
I walk alone,
sometimes —
along to the symphony of weariness that creaks and clings to my bones.
Don’t look into my eyes —
and simplify my rage with simplistic tropes.

I am an evergreen forest that is also ablaze.
As the Sun sets on dark days,
every breath becomes a smoke signal — before it dissipates.
I wrap my arms around myself — so I won’t lose my soul or give it away. Social disorder is the poetic justice
that will keep spilling out of boiling veins —
when negative peace is the only priority night after day.

In my dreams,
I court chaos and let it reign.
I’m lucid dreaming about hurricanes.
If this miserable planet —
all burns down before or after midnight,
perhaps humans or some other beings,
will build something better from the ashes
in some other lifetime.